white-balance: [in digital photography] wherein a camera sees an object as its lighting’s colour

“Hey, kid.”

Jungkook glances up from where he’s editing on Photoshop, brows lifted, half in annoyance and the other in mild fondness. “I would remind you that I’m not a kid anymore but I suppose it wouldn’t make a difference.”

Min Yoongi is the owner of their studio, and Jungkook remembers the day they had met, mid-summer, sleeves rolled up in a last ditch attempt to stave off the heat and hands wrapped desperately around an iced Americano as he sat in the coffee shop, waiting for Yoongi to show up.

They’d shook hands, and despite only having known each other for two hours, Yoongi had recognized the flickering burn in Jungkook's eyes in parallel to his own. This was how their little start-up came to be.

It wasn’t easy with only the two of them taking on freelance tasks, assignments that ranged from architectural projects to product photography, but Jungkook would like to build on the fact that they’d managed to survive, and that five months into their project, they have a studio, albeit modest, but close to a second home.

Yoongi fixes him with a cool stare, decidedly unamused with the sass. “I’ve been telling you to go home for the past three hours.”

“It’s fine if you leave first, I can lock up.”

“I know that, but I think you should give yourself a break sometimes. We’ve made it this far, it’s all right to cut yourself some slack.” Yoongi walks past him to the mini pantry, ruffling Jungkook's hair as he goes (“Will you ever stop this!”).

Jungkook hums, scrolling his crosshair across the pixelated canvas as he thinks about home. “It’s just… I don’t like going home.”

Going home to an empty apartment, his mind echoes back at him.

Yoongi sighs, but places a hand on Jungkook's shoulder before reminding him to lock up as promised.

The door to the studio opens and closes, and Jungkook realizes, as he does every day, that no matter he is, it always feels like there’s an empty space.

It’s the mailbox that Jungkook first checks when he gets home, turning the little key that he’d spent nearly twenty seconds trying to find in his apocalypse of a backpack, pulling down the small latch and peering into the box.

There’s an envelope, and Jungkook laughs, brightening up a little as he slides it out.

Later, when he lifts the flap, a postcard falls out, the Eiffel Tower standing tall and heavily edited in the foreground, with a random couple holding hands in front of it and trust Taehyung to choose the most clichéd of postcards, Jesus Christ.

“I miss you, my star” is written at the back in Taehyung's distinct doctor’s scrawl, a chicken scratch that Jungkook struggles to decipher, only to feel his cheeks warm when he finally makes out the words.

There are a couple of polaroids in the envelope, and Jungkook looks through each one, the side of his lips tugging up when he sees the quaint cafés in the small frame, some badly taken selfies with only half of Taehyung's face in them, some blurry.

Taehyung has been to places. Many places, and he had always made sure to send a postcard, or polaroids, and once, a long, handwritten letter that Jungkook had cried tears of blood trying to read, after which he had replied very politely that he’d much prefer if Taehyung sent more pictures of his face instead.

If there is anything that Jungkook doesn’t like about their arrangement, it’s that Taehyung never gives him a return address.

Understandable, because both of them would never know how long Taehyung intends to stay in every location. Taehyung could be in Berlin one day, and the next week, he would still be there, indulging in apple cider and bratwurst, which he had insisted was his favourite food in the entire world until his postcard from Hanoi nearly a month later, with some polaroids of him eating tornado potatoes on a street in Old Quarter, declaring it as his new favourite food.

(And then:

“Actually,” Taehyung had said, in a Kakao call two days later, “I think I like Pho more. Not the soupy kind. The dry kind. ”

“Okay, Tae, I mean, it would help if I knew what you were talking about.”

“Google exists for a reason.”)

Jungkook keeps all the polaroids, strings them on a thread until it almost feels as if he’s been to the London Eye, seen the Big Ben, or taken a picture with the Merlion in Singapore. Taehyung writes dates on them all.

June, it had started with. June again, three times in July, nearly six from September as compensation for going missing in August (“Holy , Tae, did you mail me something every three days?”). Then the newest one, October.

He checks the time, does some mental math for the time difference, then calls Taehyung.

Taehyung picks up, the familiar crackle of his voice over unstable data connection. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

They stay this way a while, listening to the sound of the other breathing through the line, until Taehyung speaks again. There’s a hum of traffic in the background, and Jungkook's chest tightens a little, wishing he could be there.

“I almost got pickpocketed today,” Taehyung says, a little laugh in his voice, and Jungkook can imagine the mirth twinkling in his eyes. “These guys were trying to make me sign a petition I think, came way too close, but I noticed one of them feeling my pockets.”

“That’s ,” Jungkook snorts, but a little peeved at the thought of some random strangers getting that close to Taehyung.

“It was a little obvious, though, I mean, I am undoubtedly Asian, so why would they try to talk to me in advanced French.”

Jungkook hums, nodding a little before remembering that Taehyung can’t see him. “S